He woke up tired of life. Not life in general but life specific, as in the way he was living it. Yes, that’s much closer to the truth: He woke up tired of his life. He’d reinvented himself about fifteen years ago, surprised everyone including God. It was a bloom for the better, he called it his late spring liberation.
But now he was in his Indian summer, true autumn would set in soon. He sensed this next season would not be one of putting on but falling away, like the leaves. Not a manufactured stripping a la flagellation, but natural, prompted only by the wind’s ways. The feeling was impossible to shake, that his absolute survival depended on this change. He simply could not continue on with the way things were. If he did he might uncle to despair, and that would be more than he could bear. That would be to admit a great defeat. That would be to give up on life, to trample underfoot the gift.
He speaks of this sauce as a grail I must seek, that if I do not undertake the quest it is possible I could become lost in words and more words, or worse, trying to save the world. I’ve no reason to trust him other than I’m weary of reasons. So I swear myself an enemy of our culture’s logorrhea as he offers me a glass of red. This man has no tolerance for white. His madness demands color. He says so will mine. I left with a lust for the sweetness that cuts through the mustard.
If we should die, we’ll die lovely-faced. And they’ll weave stories about us, calling us true believers.
a time for remembrance and examen.
I say maybe, and ready my hands.